Straight On 'Til Morning
by spark fanfic
Summary: He made his pledge; he made his choice. [Set at the beginning of "The Two Towers"]


TITLE: Straight On 'Til Morning  
AUTHOR: Luna  
ARCHIVE: Soundfic, certainly.  
CATEGORY: LOTR:TTT, implied Legolas/Aragorn. PG for one   
naughty word.  
NOTES: Not mine and I don't want them, but here I am   
anyway. Big love to Kyra Cullinan for quick beta.  
  
SUMMARY: He made his pledge; he made his choice.  
  
There is a joy in running at night, Legolas knows, no   
matter how long the road or how unlikely the return. Elves   
never do anything without a certain joy in its rhythm.  
  
Hill country is a raucous, rustling sea of dry grass that   
harbors a bellowing wind. Far above, the few stars sing in   
voices sure as arrows piercing the sky's black hide. Far   
ahead, the clanking of orc armor, the hiss of stinking   
Uruk-hai breath.  
  
They are three sets of footsteps. Running at night.  
  
The muscles in Legolas' thighs are straining, complaining,   
though it's nothing that a quarter hour's rest wouldn't   
mend. His heart is a war drum. Another elf would hear him   
coming a dozen miles away. But not an orc, or a dwarf, or   
an ordinary man.  
  
He scouts ahead of his fellows, vaulting over the boulders,   
landing as soft and sure-footed as the hard earth allows.   
On a high swell he stops, eyes narrowed against the   
whistling wind, and watches their enemies making for the   
east. An ugly pack leaving an ugly, trampled trail. They   
jostle each other, perhaps laughing, perhaps snarling, in   
their guttural language that is fit only for foulness.   
Beyond them--for they are no longer so distant that Legolas   
cannot see beyond them--the horizon looks like ripped   
flesh. There is no sunrise in that sky, only a crackle of   
lightning.  
  
Aragorn comes to his side; his breathing is loud, but   
steady as untroubled sleep. He gazes out as far as he can   
see. "How far ahead?"  
  
"Little more than a day," Legolas says, squinting again,   
"if we don't lose their trail."  
  
"We won't." He slips naturally into Elvish speech.   
"They've kept the hobbits alive this long, but they'll grow   
restless and reckless between battles."  
  
A grim current underlies the words. Between battles.   
Legolas does not possess all the gifts of his elders; his   
sight only goes so far. Yet it rushes toward and around   
him now, individual sounds multiplied and amplified into a   
roar. Rain striking iron. Torches sizzling out in   
steaming mud. The thick wet sound of a blade cleaving   
flesh. Screams of war, screams of pain.  
  
Now Aragorn claps a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"  
  
Nothing but wind in his ears. He shakes his head. "We   
don't have time to lose."  
  
A gentle pressure of his hand, and Aragorn springs forward,   
taking the lead.  
  
Hill country, horse country; the soil has been churned and   
flattened by hundreds of hooves. Each footfall echoes.   
Aragorn leads them along a valley path: less of a vantage   
point, more cover. Though everything here is so bare, so   
bleak, so empty except for the boundless howling of the   
wind. Oh! for a forest, for the forest of Lorien, each   
tender leaf whispering to its brother and the Lady   
Galadriel's hair lilting in the breeze. Her voice like a   
hand reaching into his heart, strumming a perfect chord.   
Lorien: every step, every snapping twig a song. The   
longing deepens within Legolas like that music.  
  
Fifteen paces behind him, tramping up a green incline, the   
dwarf is beginning to pant for breath. Legolas allows his   
pace to lapse so they are matched. "You look exhausted,"   
he says. "Though I am sure you rested well enough in   
Lothlorien."  
  
Gimli grunts. "I will allow that we received better   
hospitality there than in the halls of my cousins." They   
each wince, remembering the horror of Moria, of the crack   
of the Balrog's blazing whip. Frodo's scream, Gandalf's   
fall. "Nevertheless," Gimli says, "you elves are much too   
convinced of your own superiority."  
  
"I could give you ten leagues' head start and still outrun   
you."  
  
"Yet you weigh less than my ax." At this they both   
chuckle.  
  
"What would you do?" Legolas asks, listening to Gimli's   
heavy treading and his own light steps. The incline has   
become a steep slope, and Aragorn has vanished over its   
horizon. "Tunnel beneath the whole of Middle-earth and   
surprise the orcs on the other side?"  
  
"By your neck, I would." Gimli sighs, like a bellows   
fanning a dying fire. "Give me ten of my stout kinsmen and   
something to feed them apart from these shitting crackers."  
  
As they climb, Legolas braces himself with a hand in a   
clump of grass. "You'll learn to be glad of lembas-bread   
before--"  
  
Rain striking iron. A roar of flame, a roar of water   
released in a flood. An orcish growl turning into an   
enraged shriek as an arrow enters its throat.  
  
Gimli is peering at him strangely. "Before the end,"   
Legolas finishes, and pulls himself higher, fills his lungs   
with air and sprints up the hill.  
  
He has no doubt that it is the future he's catching wind   
of, or one future. It may be a future of Men, one that   
will not touch upon the Ringbearer or upon Elfkind. No:   
the elves will make for the Western sea and sail to   
Valinor. Perhaps they are making their way west now.  
  
All of them, perhaps, except Arwen, clear-eyed Arwen whose   
star glimmers over Aragorn's heart. Legolas does not need   
second sight to see her lying on a bed, half asleep and   
humming a song from her childhood. Her voice and her   
prayers are with them. She will not take herself to the   
Undying Lands while Aragorn draws breath.  
  
And neither will Legolas.  
  
Not for him the ocean, with its squalling clouds and   
wailing sea-birds. This hits him with the force of a fist,   
the impact ringing in his ears. He made his pledge; he   
made his choice. His people will go and he will remain, in   
this service.  
  
Rain striking iron. Screaming. A clash of many swords. A   
thunder of many riders.  
  
Silence.  
  
Only the night wind. And Aragorn's footsteps in time with   
his own.  
  
Almost unconsciously, Legolas fingers the clasp that   
fastens his cloak. The green-and-gold leaf seems to chime   
at his touch. As if he heard it too, Aragorn cocks his   
head and looks back. His profile is clear even in the   
dark. And he is smiling.  
  
He is a born king, and there is no call to wonder why he   
inspires such love. The very grasses quiet and part   
themselves in his path.  
  
After all, thinks Legolas, there are worse futures. He has   
heard the twang of his own bowstring in battle, and the   
whirring of an arrow shot as true as a shaft of sunlight.   
He has heard the Lady's voice in blessing. Now he hears it   
again, the syllables breaking through fear and weariness.   
There are still a few pure stars singing in the sky.  
  
He runs faster, faster, until he has come to Aragorn's   
right hand. Their strides, their muscles, their pulses   
perfectly even.  
  
"Little more than a day," Aragorn says. He is not even   
short of breath. "Then we'll be upon them. And they'll   
wish they never heard of hobbits."  
  
"More than that. They'll wish they never heard of you."  
  
They share a smile for a moment. Then Legolas ducks his   
head. Fair hair streaming behind him, he takes the lead.  
  
Hill country rolls out before him, regular as the breast of   
the ocean. Perhaps he will die here; if he dies, he will   
do it with grace. But Legolas knows nothing of the future   
now. Only running at night. The rhythm his companions'   
steps make with his own. The sweet strain in his muscles,   
and in his heart a battle cry.  
  
In his heart, the stirring of gladness that is what he   
knows best of being alive. 


End file.
